


Children Of The King

by Thamys020



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Donalbain centric, Manipulation, Second Person, Strings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 09:37:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thamys020/pseuds/Thamys020
Summary: You are the youngest child of the king.All of you were born with strings.





	Children Of The King

You are the king’s youngest child. 

All of you are born with strings. 

You have a soft older brother, and a calculating older sister. From a young age you learn to depend on your older sister for everything, as does your brother. She is all the two of you have, she’s told you as much. Your father, she says, will not love you like I do until you can be of use to him. Until the strings tighten.  

When you are almost ten years old, your sister is married off. You cling to your brother as he assures you that it’s okay, that he can protect you and you learn he can, almost as well as your sister. 

At night the two of you wish for your sister. 

When you are ten years old, your brother is pulled into a battle. You come of course, but are not allowed to go on. When you see your brother again, he has a glazed expression and is staring at his hands, painted in red. Your father claps him on the back, praises him in front of others, but all he does even after the red is gone, is stare.    
But slowly, your brother returns, and you join him on the field, and see what exactly your soft spoken brother is capable of. 

You want the fight to stop. 

And it does, as if by a miracle. Your father insists you want for wives, and there are no shortage of people after you, because unlike your brother, you were blessed with golden hair, and blue eyes. 

You look like your father. Your sister had the same blonde hair, but inherited your mother’s emerald eyes. Your brother has dark curls, mismatched blue and green eyes, and basically looks small and fragile. 

But you aren’t fooled. You know what your brother can do, even if the suitors don’t. 

You avoid the suitors for as long as you can, but the strings are insistent.

Your brother finds a friend in a son of a lord. The two spend hours, reading old stories and building castles on paper. 

Your father does not approve and the son is sent away. The strings tighten around him like a noose. 

You realize what’s going on. Your father is using you and your brother for political gain. 

It doesn’t matter if the two servants are funny and nice to be around. The daughter of the Thane of Wherever is much more approved in your fathers eyes. 

When you are fifteen there is another war. 

Your brother takes less time to wash the red off of him. You wonder if he still stares at them under the table. 

You are going to your sister’s house and your brother is king. 

Not that you care. 

Her husband seems nice, but all you want to do is talk to your friends. Your brother decides to delve into his books. As your father gets less attentive, the strings loosen. 

After the dinner you and your two friends get drunk, play card games, and drink some more. You ask them to walk with you to your room. 

In the morning you are all hungover, but you all have found company in each other. You can deal with your father later. 

Or more accurately never. 

Your father is dead. 

Your brother thinks the murderer could be after him and you next. He says he will go to England. 

You say you will go to Ireland. He says he might know who murdered your father. But you say you don’t want to deal with the strings. 

That’s the kind of puppet you are. You’d rather dance on your own, unlike your brother who will hang himself in the strings to please everyone. 

He hugs you and tells you to be quick. 

You tell him to be strong. He nods and you leave. 

You are the youngest child of the king. 

You have no more strings. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...well?


End file.
